1945
by O'Shea
Summary: Undercover agents from the Department of Mysteries attend the tests of the Manhattan Project in New Mexico. They return with word of a devastating weapon the likes of which has never been seen on this earth. The year is 1945, and Dumbledore's world is at war. Oneshot.


A/N: As I'm currently in-between chapters of _Auror Commander_, I thought I'd post this oneshot. Enjoy.

**1945**

—

We have been duelling for what feels like hours. The most powerful wizards of our day, locked in an immense battle for the future of the magical world.

Later, they will call it a battle for the ages - many even suggesting that it is the greatest duel of all time.

We dance, each vying for the upper hand with subtle wand flicks and words unspoken as we summon supernatural energy to our bidding.

But slowly and surely, I am winning. He knows it too, senses that the scales are tipping in my favour.

He does what any desperate man would do.

I know the curse is on the tip of his tongue.

"_Avada Kedavra."_

The violent jet of green light bursts forth from the Elder Wand, and I escape it by inches.

A line has been crossed now, and my heart sinks.

Things will never be the same.

There is only regret in my voice as I riposte with a flash of white lightning. Three bolts fire from my wand. He dismisses one and dodges another, but the third hits his shoulder. It buys me a moment of time.

"_Expelliarmus!"_

The Elder Wand flies from his grasp, clattering as it lands on the cold granite.

But he is not done yet.

He thrusts his hand forwards in a claw like gesture, forcing an torrent of magical energy at me. I counter with a similar gesture of my own.

The struggle between our opposing wills is nothing short of titanic.

In many ways, he is stronger. He lacks the self-restraint that has become a necessity for me.

It is this restraint that I relinquish now.

A sharp twist of my hand shoots a new wave of magical energy at him, and he is driven back by the furious onslaught.

I reach out and summon the Elder Wand to my hand, curling my fingers around the unique core. Its power surprises even me.

But it is the clarity, the focus, that unparalleled sense of deadly purpose that is the wand's greatest gift.

I cast a hex with a shout.

He cries out in pain as it shatters the bones in his wand arm.

With a second sharp jab, a flash of blue light brings him to his knees. He coughs blood as the blue light takes a terrible hold. If he struggles against it, it will only cause him further pain. He knows this; it is a curse of his own creation.

It is not a pretty end, but in a duel, it never is.

I walk towards him, my face a mask.

"I'm sorry, Albus," he says, as he cradles his arm, now useless.

For a moment I see a flash of the youthful face I once loved.

"Forgive me," he adds, knowing I won't.

"You know I cannot."

I say the words and my heart breaks once more.

He collapses to the ground, unconscious.

* * *

><p>They want to contain him deep within Azkaban, in the hell-on-earth that is the Pit, home to a Dementor swarm.<p>

I take one look at this Pit and turn away, sickened. No one should ever be imprisoned here. Death would be a far kinder mercy. So I secure him in his own fortress: the unassailable Nuremgard. There he will spend the rest of his days.

Others celebrate his downfall. I do not.

Only five or six witches and wizards in every century possess the power that he and I do. His loss is a tremendous blow to the wizarding world.

Yet they laud me with prizes. Exemplary Magic. Distinguished Service. Order of Merlin, First Class. Almost overnight, I go from being a renowned academic and world-class magical mind to a global superstar. _Hero of the wizarding world, _writes the _Daily Prophet._

But I tire of the platitudes, and return to Hogwarts, my home.

Allow me to introduce myself, dear reader. I am Albus Dumbledore.

I am, undoubtedly, the most brilliant wizard to walk the earth in centuries. This, many mistake for arrogance, but I am merely stating the truth.

The Minister for Magic begs me to take up a position at the Ministry. I decline, stating my desire to remain a teacher at Hogwarts, continuing my own research. I do, of course, offer my services in an advisory capacity.

But even with the defeat of Grindelwald, the world remains in a state of chaos. The Muggles fight each other to the death in a conflict they are calling the Second World War.

It is a horrid affair.

Twice I have visited concentration camps and witnessed scenes of dread. The liberating Allied soldiers share the same aghast expressions, scarcely believing that what they are witnessing is real.

An Auror, Nathaniel Potter, accompanies me as we undertake our tour of a ruined Europe. I can see the indignation written on his face as plain as day. He lives up to his family name: a proud Gryffindor outraged at the sight of the unjust and inhumane.

That night, as we make camp, he articulates his frustration to me, how he doesn't understand why magic cannot intervene in these truly extraordinary circumstances.

"The Wizengamot is overrun with doddering old men, set in-"

"Careful Nathaniel, some might call _me_ a doddering old man."

"Please Albus, you don't look a day over fifty. But that's beside the point. I feel like I'm shouting at a bloody brick wall. Only a couple of the other Councillors agree with me."

"I am afraid, Nathaniel, that the vast majority of wizards do not like to concern themselves with the affairs of Muggles."

"We're all human. Regardless of magic, or no magic, we're all human," he states bitterly.

I cannot help but agree with him. I have, after all, seen what he has seen.

"How was Charlus' wedding?" I ask, changing the conversation.

Nathaniel makes a face. He is no fan of his cousin's bride, Dorea Black, or her pureblood sentiments.

I admire his position on this. It is not a popular opinion amongst the company he keeps. The wizarding elite is a long way from accepting Muggleborns. Even halfblooded wizards such as myself are viewed with distaste by some.

"He was disappointed you didn't make it."

"I am first and foremost, a teacher."

"That's what I told him at the wedding."

I chuckle, and we continue conversing long into the night until the oil lamp runs low.

Somehow, I feel it is important to foster a friendship with this young Auror, the heir to one of the greatest wizarding households in Wizarding Britain. Of course, I do not know it yet, and neither does he, but one day, his grandson will save our world.

We watch, hidden, as Berlin falls and the Muggles celebrate in the streets of London. I return from the battlefields of Europe to Hogwarts, but it is only a brief respite. The war is not over yet, and all eyes turn to the Pacific, where the Japanese have no intention of surrendering.

But then, the Allied Muggles achieve something many consider abhorrent.

They succeed in creating an atomic bomb.

Undercover agents from the Department of Mysteries attend the tests of the Manhattan Project in New Mexico. They return with word of a devastating weapon the likes of which has never been seen on this earth.

I spend a week researching nuclear physics, learning about the splitting of the atom by a man from the bottom of the world, to the present-day work of men like Einstein and Oppenheimer. I feel a particular affinity with these men. They too, are scholars employed as weapons of war.

It is quite fascinating what this power can do. The Department of Mysteries consult with me to create new spells to counter the effects of radiation, and nuclear energy itself.

The International Confederation of Wizards meets to discuss this new development, and I am invited to attend as a special guest of the British delegation.

We enter last and take our places as everyone else stands. It is a sign of respect. We have long enjoyed a privileged status as leaders of the wizarding world.

But after hours of debate, the Confederation chooses inaction.

"It is not our way, not our place, to interfere with the Muggle world. We did not intervene in Dresden, in London, in Stalingrad, so why should be intervene now?"

Again, I return to Hogwarts to prepare for the start of term, but my mind keeps returning to the war in the Pacific. I read of Okinawa and island-hopping, and the new President, Truman.

Eventually, the inevitable happens. The Americans will not, cannot, waste a million sons to take the Japanese mainland. So they do the only thing that makes sense, yet makes no sense at all.

They drop the bomb.

They choose Hiroshima. It is a sacred place to wizards and Muggles alike. I have finished planning my courses for the day when I hear the news, and immediately seek out a Portkey to take me on the first leg of my journey to Japan.

Two days after the bomb falls, I walk the streets of Hiroshima, shielded and invisible. So little is left of a once-vibrant city that is now a graveyard to a hundred thousand souls.

A chill runs through me.

This is the terrible price of inaction.

A day later, the Americans drop a second bomb on Nagasaki. This time, I watch from a safe distance as the bomb falls, and a blinding white light scars a city that will be forever changed. As the sinister mushroom cloud rises above the ruined city, I experience for the first time in my life an emotion that lies somewhere between awe and fear.

The Japanese surrender a few days later. How can you fight an enemy with the power to blot out the sky?

* * *

><p>Upon my return to London, I visit Nathaniel Potter at the Ministry of Magic.<p>

"Nathaniel."

"Albus, it is always good to see you. How can I help?" he asks.

"I can assume you've heard about the Muggle bomb?"

"I have. Ghastly business. A man from Mysteries briefed me about it just last week."

"Excellent. You understand, I trust, the dangers of such a weapon?"

"Not half as well as you do, I wager."

"I don't claim to be an expert–"

"But of course, you are," he says dryly.

"Well…I have been thinking about the state of affairs the world finds itself in. And as such, I have decided to form a group…a secret society of sorts, to protect our world from threats magical and otherwise. I trust you, and so I would like for you to join this group."

"Count me in, Albus."

"Done then!" I exclaim, shaking his hand.

"What's this group of yours called?" he asks.

A grin crosses my features. The name, I think, is truly magnificent.

"The Order of the Phoenix."

—

_The End._

A/N: I am, of course, aware that in canon the Order was specifically founded to defeat Voldemort, so forgive me this small creative liberty. Please let me know what you think!


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